


18

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Series: Tuli-chan and H's Prompt Challenge [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Multi, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 21:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13773288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro
Summary: Prompt:Character receives a tattoo as part of coming of age ritual(selected byTuli-chanfromAll of the Prompts).





	18

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Character receives a tattoo as part of coming of age ritual_ (selected by **[Tuli-chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)** from **[All of the Prompts](https://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/post/150774916545/alloftheprompts-anonymous-said-to)** ).

My life is a fucking cliché. 

This is the kind of thing they don't tell you about when you become a big brother. Maybe there's a bunch of how-to manuals somewhere out there, but I missed the day when they were handing those out. 

I wonder if things would be different if I were a girl. Girls are more mature, aren't they? More sensitive. Maybe they'd know how to handle a situation like this. 

But I don't. 

So all I can do is watch. 

Watch my kid brother, Madara, sitting on the porch swing, "reading." His eyes flicker to the driveway every five seconds. We've been out here twenty-seven minutes, and I haven't seen him turn a page.

It's kinda sad and adorable at the same time. 

He's looking at the driveway again. He thinks I don't notice, but I do. I notice everything about him. It's kinda like my job, only I'm not getting paid, and I'm _always_ working overtime.

Sometimes, I wonder what our lives would be like if our positions were reversed. If he were the older brother, and I, the bratty kid who casually pretends to read on the porch swing when I'm really waiting for his best friend to show up.

Because that's what this really is. 

My kid brother's in love with my best friend. 

Like I said, _a major fucking cliché._

I wonder if, in some parallel universe or past life, Madara would have been a good older brother. I'd like to think he'd be better at this shit than me.

  


* * *

  


Tobirama pulls into my driveway sixteen and a half minutes later. 

I watch him exit his car, watch him make his way toward me. He looks good. He always does. Effortlessly sexy in the way that makes me hate him a little.

When he reaches the final porch step, I lean down and kiss him. He tastes like black tea and Black Russian. 

I can feel Madara's eyes on us. And I know that I'm the worst brother in all the world.

  


* * *

  


I don't know how to talk to Madara about love. I think that — for the most part — it's 'cause I barely understand what it is myself. 

I'm not in love with Tobirama. Not the way Madara is, anyway. 

We've known each other almost all our lives. Somedays I think I know him better than anyone, even myself. I don't know what the fuck I want a lot of the time. Where the fuck my life's headed. 

Kushina tells me I'm not supposed to worry about that kinda stuff. I'm seventeen. I could live my life like I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, and I'd totally get away with it. 

But I _like_ knowing things. I enjoy the certainty — the security — of it. 

And here's the thing I hate most about us. That we're a secret.

This is another thing they don't teach you. What to do when you're fucking someone you're not supposed to fuck. 

It's not the kinda thing I could ever explain to my ultra-conservative parents, unless I were going for total disownment or someting. 

And it's not like I couldn't handle it, y'know? Living on my own. I've got enough money to survive, and even if I were broke, I know that I could just crash at Tobirama's. 

_His_ parents — and his bank account — are very unlike mine.

Thing is, it's the _principle_ of it all.

Call me insane, but I actually _love_ my parents. And I'm not really afraid of being disowned. I'm just afraid of the disappointment I'd have to face if I tell them. I don't want to see that disgust in their eyes. I don't want them to look at me and see an abomination. A failure. 

Mostly, I stick around for Madara's sake. He's the only one who knows my secret. It's hard to hide stuff like this from him. Not when he's always following me around the way Travis Barker (my Bolonka, not the drummer) does. Little brothers — like dogs — are weirdly inquisitive creatures.

And I just can't leave him alone to deal with the parentals. Kid's got it so much worse than I do. I mean, he's not even a little bit straight.

Maybe I shouldn't be doing this, but I can't help wanting to kiss Tobirama on the front porch when I know my parents are still inside the house. My dad's stuck in his office, making business calls and my mom's probably cross-stitching her six millionth handkerchief. No one even _uses_ handkerchiefs anymore. But those are my parents. They're so predictable, it's not even funny.

Kissing Tobirama feels a little like rebellion and a lot like cowardice.

Because this is what it's supposed to look like.

Kushina's the girl I bring home for birthdays and Christmas and _How I Met Your Mother_ marathons.

Tobirama's my best friend. The guy I've known since we were five. The guy who went to all the same schools I did. The guy I should never want to kiss, or fuck, or do anything that'll make my parents wanna go all _Pray the Gay Away_ on my ass.

And I hate him and the world and my parents and mostly myself for being a part of this fucking charade.

  


* * *

  


Here's what I _don't_ hate. 

Kushina and I? We're not a lie. We're just not the only truth.

I am stupidly, undeniably, inextricably in love with her. And I'm talking cheesy ass, gag-inducing, 90s pop kinda love. 

Andbutso now would be a good time for a flashback. So here it is. My _How I Met My Insanely-Hot-Totally-Fuckable-Not-Totally-Parental-Approved-But-Thank-God-I'm-Straight Girlfriend_ story.

  


* * *

  


So picture this.

I'm standing in line in California Donuts. It's eight-thirty-seven in the fucking morning, which doesn't sound that terrible, I know, but I'm running on no sleep and lots of fucking nicotine. 

And all I want is my espresso and my goddamn maple bar, but there she is. 

This chick who, let's face it, is totally fucking hot, even if all I've got is this bleary-eyed view of the back of her head that's covered in _so much red hair._ I can't even check out her ass — _that's_ how fucking long her hair is.

Andbutso she's holding up the line, ordering a million fucking coffees and a million more donuts, and — get this — she's totally Sally Albright-ing each one. 

I can feel everyone behind me losing it. The frustrated groans, the impatient feet tap-tap-tapping — I can hear them all. Hell, even the perpetual watch-checking and dirty-glaring is becoming pretty fucking audible. 

And it's eight-fucking-forty and I'm about to lose it myself. So I cut right in and ask for my maple bar.

And — can you believe this? — she grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around with all this insane strength, I'd be scared shitless if I weren't so turned on. 

"There's a _line,_ dipshit."

That's the first thing she says to me. 

And fuck, she's _gorgeous._ Milky skin, blazing violet eyes, lips I could kiss the snarl off all fucking day. 

I try to play it cool, but inside? I'm Stanley Ipkiss watching Tina Carlyle perform at the Coco Bongo.

She's got me so tongue-tied and half-hard, the only thing I can think to say is, "Do you know who I am?"

Only, I'm not really thinking when I say it. 

I know it's probably the douchiest of douchebag lines, but it's what leaves my mouth anyway. 

So she looks at me with this totally unimpressed, incredulously raised eyebrow and asks, "Am I _supposed_ to?"

And that's the moment I fall in love.

  


* * *

  


Here's another truth about me. 

I wasn't lying that day, when I acted like I was famous. 

Tobirama and I are in a band. Or rather, we _are_ the band. We're not as big as Mötley Crüe or whatever, but we're big enough to get autograph and selfie requests sometimes, and the odd lace panties thrown our way.

We've recently scored eighty-five thousand subscribers on YouTube. We've got t-shirts with our names on it. We're not playing sold-out crowds at Coachella or anything, but we do okay.

And here's another truth. Tobirama's in love with Kushina too. 

It's not a rivalry thing. We've always been more comfortable than competitive. He knows me well. I know _him_ well. It's unusual, but it works. 

"You guys are glued at the hip." That's what Kushina said two weeks into our knowing each other. It's gotta be pretty fucking obvious if someone can tell after two fucking weeks. 

And I didn't even try to deny it. Not then, not now. It's the kinda line we've been getting from pretty much _everybody_ since grade school. 

Maybe it's weird, but I _like_ that Tobirama's my best friend first and always. The lovers thing is… a lot less complicated when you aren't trying to impress each other by pretending to be someone else.

"We're the next Band and Kamin," I'd declared proudly that day. 

And Kushina — adorable, confuzzled Kushina — just stared at me in blatant incomprehension. 

So I tried again. "Casey and Kourelis?"

More staring. That cute, exasperated frown between her brows when she doesn't understand what the fuck I'm talking about. 

"Bon Jovi and Sambora!"

 _That_ made her laugh. _"Please,"_ she grinned, rolling her eyes. "You guys are nowhere near as cool as Bon Jovi."

I didn't mind the dig. Kushina's never been afraid to tell the truth and it's what I love about her. 

And I've always known that that was the moment Tobirama learned to love her too.

  


* * *

  


We hang in my basement most days. It's my sanctuary. The one place I don't have to worry about my parents walking into. Not when they know I've got my friends over and the music loud. Thank all the gods I don't believe in for the eargasmic vocals of Sebastian Bach.

The basement is actually my bedroom slash practice room slash party central. 

And by _party,_ I mean we jam a little, smoke a little, fuck a little. Sometimes, we get pizza and a really bad kung fu movie. I know, I know, how terribly risqué.

Today is one of those _fuck a little_ days.

I'm sitting on the couch and Kushina's on the carpet, kneeling between my legs. She's got my dick in her mouth and her fingers in me. It's fucking _incredible._

Any guy who says he hates it when his girl sticks a finger up his chute during blowjobs is a filthy fucking liar. 

I love watching her suck me off. Her face is all flushed, almost as red as her hair, and her lips look so fucking pretty stretched around my cock. It's mindblowingly erotic, watching her suck me in time with her fingers thrusting in and out of my ass.

And Tobirama's standing behind the couch, leaning down to kiss me. Kissing upside down — it's not romantic like the movies make it out to be. I'm not used to this angle and it's awkward as fuck. 

But it's hot. The way he's got his hand around my throat. The way he tilts my chin up so he can bite it. The way he leans closer, fingers wandering down to my nipples, over my ribs, down to my belly. He knows I like it when he caresses me there. 

And we're just this stupid mess of limbs. Tobirama's lips, teeth, hands all over me. Kushina deep-throating me. It makes me arch up and tense in that deliciously good way.

And just like that, I don't feel Tobirama anymore. He walks around the couch to stand behind Kushina. He lifts her hips so her ass is in the air, all pert and fuckable. He slides into her. And he doesn't take his eyes off me.

It's not anything like porn. This is so much better. _We're_ so much better, fucking and getting fucked. 

Kushina's lips 'round the base of my dick. The tip of her tongue sliding out to caress my balls. She's moaning something sweet now. I can feel the vibrations of her throat against the head of my cock. It travels through me, all the way up my spine, into my brain, right down to my fucking toes. 

I lift my leg onto her shoulder, allowing her deeper access.

Her fingers are matching Tobirama's rhythm now. They curl against my prostate and I am so fucking _close._

Tobirama fucks her good and hard, drives her deeper into me, around me. His eyes are intense, scorching. Sometimes I can't stand the way he looks at me. Like everything's a blur and I'm the only thing that stands out. Like I'm the only one that _matters._

It's disconcerting. It's too much.

So I throw my arm across my eyes. I block out everything till all I can feel is Kushina's mouth and tongue and hands and the ghost of Tobirama's touch and my bone-rocking orgasm that's ripping right through me.

  


* * *

  


Somedays, we lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling, just vegging out. 

I pass Kushina a joint. I say, "Scariest fictional character."

She takes a hit. Passes it to Tobirama and yells, _"Howard fucking Howe!"_ , like she'd just discovered she's won the fucking Powerball and wouldn't have to share it with eighteen assholes or something.

Tobirama sits up and nods as if Kushina's said something particularly wise. "I was gonna say Abin Cooper myself," he says around the joint. He blows out this stupidly perfect smoke ring like the showoff he is, before handing it to me. 

Kushina makes a noise of agreement. "Nobody does _absolutely fucking terrifying_ like Michael Parks."

Here's a thing I hate about my friends slash lovers. _He_ makes everything look easy. _She_ makes everything look worthwhile. It drives me crazy somedays. It makes me think stupid things, like how easily they get each other, and how good they look together, and how they'd be better off without me. It makes me feel like I don't deserve them.

Kushina stabs me in the ribs with a too-sharp fingernail. "Earth to Izuna." 

They're both looking at me expectantly.

I hand her the joint, sighing like a lovelorn fool who's mourning the loss of what was never his to begin with. What can I say? We all get a little overdramatic when we're high. "Miss Mary Meadows," I tell them. 

Tobirama smirks knowingly. "The sex scene?"

I try to suppress a shudder. It doesn't really work. "Freaked me the fuck out."

Kushina dissolves into her ridiculously adorable, horrifying cackle-snorts. 

I pounce on her and all at once, it's this attack that's part tickling, part wrestling, part dry-humping. Kushina laugh-shriek-moans. The joint falls to the floor. Tobirama rescues it before it can burn a hole through the carpet.

I don't really know how we got like this. One day, we're a twosome, the next, we're three, and it's almost like I can't remember what life before Kushina was like. And it feels like the most natural thing in the world, being here. Falling into a rhythm that _works._

Maybe I don't deserve them, but I'll take them anyway.

  


* * *

  


One of the things I love about my lovers slash friends? I can say whatever the fuck I want and not panic about it later. They're the only ones who'd never care if I sounded like a total freak.

Today, we're sitting in the garden, playing with Travis Barker. Madara — the little tagalong — is with us, looking somewhere between happy, uncomfortable, nervous, and embarrassed. I'm not sure if it's because he's sharing the same airspace with Tobirama or because Kushina's playing with slash abusing his hair. She's got cornrows down one side of his head and she's working the rest into loops. It's kinda cute in this extremely disturbing way. 

It's times like these that the weirdest shit flies out of my mouth. "Sometimes I wish I could just pull a David Marks, y'know?"

Tobirama looks at me, eyebrow raised, smirk slicking up the side of his handsome face. "Dress like a woman?" He's probably picturing it now, the bastard.

I shoot him a venomous glare. It turns his smirk into a full-on grin. The kind that makes me want to punch his perfect teeth in. But I settle for rolling my eyes instead. _"Disappear."_

Madara looks at me then. He doesn't say anything, but I can see it in his eyes. All over his face. _Me too._

And I know that — even though he understands — he's probably wanting to disappear for very different reasons than I do.

I can't bring myself to hold his gaze for too long. It makes me uncomfortable. Guilty. Like I'm supposed to do something about it but I don't know what. 

So I scratch Travis Barker's belly instead. A distraction. I say, "I'd look pretty fucking hot, though, wouldn't I? Dressed as a chick."

Kushina snorts, and it's totally fucking undignified. She doesn't even _try_ to make it sound pretty.

Tobirama laughs. "Not if you're dressed like an old lady."

  


* * *

  


"So… my brother has a crush on you."

I say this to Tobirama casually, like I haven't been working up the courage to talk about this for a few years now. I've known Tobirama since I was five. Which means _Madara's_ known him all his fucking _life._

Tobirama frowns. "I know." 

"Are you gonna talk to him?" I press, even though I know I probably shouldn't.

It's this _thing,_ this _line_ we never really cross, addressing Madara's feelings. It's a fucking weird place to be — fucking my best friend and knowing my brother's in love with him. I guess I'd hoped that this would've been just some stupid crush, some passing fancy that Madara would outgrow. I mean, kids do that all the time, right? Crush on older people. But it's been three fucking _years_ and it's _not. going. away._

Tobirama doesn't look up from the lyrics he's writing, but I can _feel_ him roll his eyes anyway. "He's _twelve,_ Izuna," he says, like I don't know how old my own brother is. He sounds exasperated. Like he doesn't wanna be talking about this _at all._

"That's not a fucking answer."

This time, Tobirama _does_ look up. His face has gone eerily blank. "What do you want me to _say,_ Izuna?" His tone is low, quiet. He only sounds like this when he's really angry.

This is why we don't talk about this shit. Because the one thing I really hate about us? It's not knowing how Tobirama truly feels about all this.

I don't know what I'm expecting, really. What it is _exactly_ that I'm hoping he'd say. 

So I return to tuning my guitar, trying to drown all this awkwardness in the discordant sounds of my Stratocaster.

My life is a messy fucking cliché, and I am a big fucking coward.

  


* * *

  


We're sitting on the edge of the roof of an abandoned theater, watching the sun go down. Kushina is an exquisite thing, bathed in fading orange.

"Worst thing about being famous," she says, tracing the lines on my palm with her fingertips. 

That one's too fucking easy. I don't even have to think about it. "That everyone acts like they know me, just 'cause they know my name."

People, I think, can be such entitled, presumptuous _assholes._

I wonder why they can't be more like this. Like Kushina, quietly humming _You Give Love A Bad Name,_ tracing idle patterns against my skin. 

There's something ridiculously pure about this moment. I wish I could frame it on a wall, immortalize it in a photograph, a painting, a sculpture that'll never crumble.

"Hey," I say, nudging her with the toe of my Chuck Taylor. "What do you see?"

Kushina smiles up at me. She's so beautiful like this, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face bare. She's the only girl I know who looks better without makeup on. The kind of beauty that merits immortalization.

She looks back at my palm, studying it intently. Traces the line that curves from the bottom of my middle finger toward the edge of my hand. "You'll be bigger than Bon Jovi. And I'll follow you all over the world — your most loyal, adoring groupie."

"You'll be my bodyguard," I counter. "Protecting me from the hordes of stalkers who only love me for my money and my good looks."

Kushina laughs. It is the best kind of music I've ever heard. "You're halfway there. You've already got the massive ego of a rock star."

"The rock star and his bodyguard." I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. "That sounds like a love story waiting to happen."

Kushina laughs again, and I think that if it's the last sound I ever hear, I'd die a happy man.

"It already has," she says. Then she pushes me to the ground and kisses me like there's nothing else worth saying.

  


* * *

  


The thing about relationships is, they're _really fucking hard._

Sex and romance — well, that's the easy part. The fun stuff. And that's what it's like between Tobirama, Kushina, and me. We're easy. We _work._

But the relationships that _don't_ include sex and romance? I can't fucking _make_ them work. My parents. My brother. The entire fucking _world._

Sometimes I think that everyone's impossible. Or maybe _we're_ impossible and we're not trying real hard to be a good fit, 'cause it's just too damn difficult and not fucking worth it.

Here's what they always tell you. That romantic relationships require a fuckton of effort and lots of fucking compromise. That if it's this easy, you're doing it wrong.

And all I can think of is this. That if _easy's_ fucking _wrong,_ then I don't ever wanna be right.

  


* * *

  


I guess it's _love_ that complicates things. 

There's a difference between being _in love,_ and _not loving_ someone, and just _loving_ them.

I don't love Tobirama. I'm in love with Kushina.

But my parents love me. And I, them. 

I watch them try to be perfect. The way they raise us to be these perfect versions of ourselves, and it's not the kind of flawless and faultless I've ever wanted to be at all.

I could live with being a fuckup. I'd rather be a fuckup all my life than somebody else's definition of the ideal human. Because at least that'd make me _real._

I watch Madara and his hero worship-y love for me. His _notice me, choose me, love me best_ unreturned love for Tobirama. I wonder — when he looks at me — if he ever feels betrayed, or simply resigned.

And I realize, love — plain, simple love — _hurts._

I wonder how anyone lives with this pain and survives it.

  


* * *

  


We are all — finally — eighteen. We celebrate this by the old railroad tracks, with Mounds and Jägermeister, cigarettes and sunrise and an acoustic guitar.

And our new tattoos.

We got them earlier today, when most of the world was asleep and we were somewhere between stone cold sober and totally fucking wasted. Ink upon our reddened skin, wrapped around our middle fingers like wedding rings. I've never believed in marriage, so this is as close to it as I'm ever gonna get. 

The one upon my left is a simple black band. _Tobirama._ My right bears a knotted red ribbon. _Kushina._

They've got each other's symbols, and the navy blue barbed wire that represents _me._

It's not the kind of thing we've ever had to discuss. Call it whatever you want. A promise, a commitment, some sick, schmoopy shit like that. We don't need to put a label on it. We don't have to talk about something that just fucking _feels_ right. 

Now we raise our Jäger shots and watch the sun and the moon sharing the sky. The world is part light and shadow.

I look at my friends and grin. "Here's to all the sex we can have — "

"We're already _having_ sex," Tobirama — bastard that he is — interrupts.

"Well, here's to all the good shit we can drink — "

Tobirama glances pointedly at our shots. "Doing that too."

"And technically, it's not legal for the next three years," Kushina adds, unhelpfully.

I glare at them. "Fine. So what the fuck are we gonna toast to?"

They shoot me these unnervingly identical _You've gotta be fucking kidding me_ looks. And they say, in unison, as if it's the most obvious truth in all the world, "To _us._ "

It's the kind of thing that should be creepy as fuck, only it _isn't._ Not entirely.

Because I know them well. And if I had to redo this fuckfest we call life, I would _always_ — infallibly — choose them both.

We don't clink our glasses. We just hold them, raised toward each other, and this moment passes between us. This understanding that we're celebrating _us,_ celebrating, not our scary, unpredictable futures, but our shared _now._

And so we drink. 

The thing I love most about Tobirama and Kushina? They know me best of all.

The sun is up.

My life is exactly as it should be.


End file.
